He did not answer that.
After a moment, he merely asked, “And don’t you have that need, Miss Whittaker? To feel significant?”
“I will tell you something, Mr. Wallace. I think I have been the most fortunate woman who ever lived. My heart has been broken, certainly, and most of my wishes did not come true. I have disappointed myself in my own behavior, and others have disappointed me. I have outlived nearly everyone I ever loved. Remaining alive to me in this world is but one sister, whom I have not seen for more than thirty years—and with whom I was not intimate, for most of my life. I have not had an illustrious career. I had one original idea in my life—and it happened to be an important idea, one that might have given me a chance to be known—but I hesitated to put it forth, and thus I missed my opportunity. I have no husband. I have no heirs. I once had a fortune, but I gave it away. My eyes are deserting me, and my lungs and legs give me much trouble. I do not think I will live to see another spring. I will die across the ocean from where I was born, and I will be buried here, far away from my parents and my sister. Surely you are asking yourself by now—why does this miserably unlucky woman call herself fortunate?”
He said nothing. He was too kind to reply to such a question.
“Do not worry, Mr. Wallace. I am not being facetious with you. I do truly believe I am fortunate. I am fortunate because I have been able to spend my life in study of the world. As such, I have never felt insignificant. This life is a mystery, yes, and it is often a trial, but if one can find some facts within it, one should always do so—for knowledge is the most precious of all commodities.”
When he still did not reply, Alma went on:
“You see, I have never felt the need to invent a world beyond this world, for this world has always seemed large and beautiful enough for me. I have wondered why it is not large and beautiful enough for others—why they must dream up new and marvelous spheres, or long to live elsewhere, beyond this dominion . . . but that is not my business. We are all different, I suppose. All I ever wanted was to know this world. I can say now, as I reach my end, that I know quite a bit more of it than I knew when I arrived. Moreover, my little bit of knowledge has been added to all the other accumulated knowledge of history—added to the great library, as it were. That is no small feat, sir. Anyone who can say such a thing has lived a fortunate life.”
Now it was he who patted her hand.
“Very well put, Miss Whittaker,” he said.
“Indeed, Mr. Wallace,” she said.
After this, it seemed their conversation was over. They were both pensive and tired. Alma returned her manuscript to Ambrose’s valise, slid the case under the divan, and locked her office door. She would never again show it to anyone else. Wallace helped her down the stairs. Outside it was dark and foggy. They walked slowly together back to the van Devender residence, two doors down. She let him in, and they stood in the hallway and said their good-nights. Wallace would be leaving the next morning, and they would not see each other again after that.
“I am so very glad you came,” she told him.
“I am so very glad you summoned me,” he said.
She reached up and touched his face. He allowed her. She explored his warm features. He had a kind face—she could feel that he did.
After that, he went upstairs to his room, but Alma waited in the hallway. She did not wish to go to sleep. When she heard his door close, she took up her cane and shawl again and returned outside. It was dark, but that did not matter to Alma anymore; she could scarcely even see in the daylight, and she knew her surroundings so well by feel. She found the back gate to the Hortus—the private gate that the van Devenders had used for three centuries now—and she let herself in to the gardens.
Her intention had been to return to the Cave of Mosses and contemplate matters for a while, but she soon grew short of breath, so she rested a spell, leaning against the nearest tree. My goodness, but she was old! How quickly it had happened! She was thankful for the tree beside her. She was thankful for the gardens, in their dark beauty. She was thankful for a quiet spot in which to rest. She remembered what poor little mad Retta Snow used to say: “Thank heavens we have an earth, or where would we sit?” Alma was feeling a bit dizzy. What a night this had been!
There were three of us, he had said.
Indeed, there had been three of them, and now there were only two. Soon, there would be only one. Then Wallace, too, would be gone. But for now, at least, he was aware of her. She was known. Alma pressed her face against the tree, and marveled at it all—at the speed of things, at the amazing confluences.
A person cannot marvel in dumbstruck amazement forever, though, and after a while Alma found herself wondering what tree this was, exactly. She was familiar with every tree in the Hortus, but she had lost track of where she was standing, and so she did not remember. It smelled familiar. She stroked its bark, and then she knew—of course, it was the shellbark hickory, the only one of its kind in all of Amsterdam. Juglandaceae. The walnut family. This particular specimen had come from America well over one hundred years earlier, probably from western Pennsylvania. Difficult to transplant, because of its long taproot. Must have come as a tiny sapling. A bottomland grower, it was. Fond of loam and silt; friend to quail and fox; resistant to ice; susceptible to rot. It was old. She was old.
Lines of evidence were converging upon Alma—lines from every direction—driving her toward her final, formidable conclusion: soon, exceedingly soon, her time would come. She knew this to be true. Maybe not tonight, but some night soon. She was not afraid of death, in theory. If anything, she had nothing but respect and reverence for the Genius of Death, who had shaped this world more than any other force. That said, she did not wish to die quite this moment. She still wanted to see what would happen next, as much as ever. The thing was to resist submersion for as long as possible.
She clutched the great tree as if it were a horse. She pressed her cheek against its silent, living flank.
She said, “You and I are very far from home, aren’t we?”
In the dark gardens, in the middle of the quiet city night, the tree did not reply.
But it did hold her up just a little while longer.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For their assistance and inspiration, the author wishes to thank: the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew; the New York Botanical Garden; the Hortus Botanicus Amsterdam; Bartram’s Garden; the Woodlands; Liberty Hall Museum; and Esalen; also Margaret Cordi, Anne Connell, Shea Hembrey, Rayya Elias, Mary Bly, Linda Shankara Barrera, Tony Freund, Barbara Paca, Joel Fry, Marie Long, Stephen Sinon, Mia D’Avanza, Courtney Allen, Adam Skolnick, Celeste Brash, Roy Withers, Linda Tumarae, Cree LeFavour, Jonny Miles, Ernie Sesskin, Brian Foster, Sheryl Moller, Deborah Luepnitz, Ann Patchett, Eileen Marolla, Karen Lessig, Michael and Sandra Flood, Tom and Deann Higgins, Jeannette Tynan, Jim Novak, Jim and Dave Cahill, Bill Burdin, Ernie Marshall, Sarah Chalfant, Charles Buchan, Paul Slovak, Lindsay Prevette, Miriam Feuerle, Alexandra Pringle, Katie Bond, Terry and Deborah Olson, Catherine Gilbert Murdock, John and Carole Gilbert, José Nunes, the late Stanley Gilbert, and the late Sheldon Potter. Special recognition is due to Dr. Robin Wall-Kimmerer (the original gatherer of mosses) and, indeed, to all women of science throughout history.